


Protego

by parchment



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Potterlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:16:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2265945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parchment/pseuds/parchment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>protego: /pro-TAY-goh/ a protection charm, from the Latin 'protego': "I cover" or "I protect"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock gets in trouble. What else is new.
> 
> p.s. The Father Holmes present here has no bearings toward the one seen in TEH and HLV.

"That was the last straw!"

Of course it was.

"I mean it!"

Yes, I believe you, Mrs. Turner.

"He's unteachable!"

I can assure you he's not. But I understand the troubles you may have encountered while attempting to educate him.

"I don’t  _care_ what you think! I quit!"

I'm sorry you feel that way, Mrs. Turner. Your things may be found by the door.

Sherlock could only hear half of the conversation, but could well imagine the other half. His mother had already left, hands thrown up in frustration at the entire situation, his father refused to take part in the ordeal from the start. The only person that remained was Mycroft, calmly accepting his tutor's inevitable resignation, proper as ever in the face of her red, spitting face.

Shame.

Sherlock had rather enjoyed the way her eyes narrowed viciously when he called her an idiot.

The door in the entrance hall slammed and Sherlock flung himself on the couch in his sitting room, the small rush of victory fast being overtaken by the desolate wanting-to-take-it-all-back-again feeling he was so familiar with. He wished Myc hadn't taken away his wand after he'd fired tiny exploding missiles at the wall. Their housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, had been beside herself at the time, running to go get Mycroft. It’d been a full week before he’d gotten his morning tea again.

His door clicked open softly, and he remained resolutely turned toward the back of the couch even as he heard the whispering steps draw closer.

"Sherlock."

That didn’t require a response.

Mycroft let out a heavy sigh at his silence, and the seat dipped where the crook in Sherlock’s legs left an empty space. 

Sherlock straightened his legs infinitesimally and Mycroft shifted back more comfortably.

They sat in silence for a while, Mycroft poised as though he was about to say something, Sherlock doing his best to keep his body relaxed like he didn’t care what was going to happen.

It was exactly three minutes and thirty-two seconds before he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Myc?”

Mycroft leant back into him, seemingly relieved that he wouldn’t have to be the first person to talk.

“Yes, Sherlock?” His voice as steady as ever.

It took a moment for Sherlock to gather his composure, when the childish urge to sit up and hug Mycroft, crying into his shoulder and getting snot all over his shirt overtook him. After what his father had shouted last time, he was sure to get into loads of trouble. And not the sort where Mrs. Hudson bustled around him as he threw a strop as his experiments were thrown out, again, but the kind where he was sent to his Uncle Rudy’s in Ireland, where he'd be forced to go to the local school. The  _Muggle_ school. He stilled his breath and body, holding perfectly still until he was sure he had control of himself again, then let out a harsh sigh, breaking the renewed quiet.

“What’s going to happen to me now?” Sherlock whispered, settling his eyes on his older brother’s worn face, shoulders hunched and eyes closed.

Mycroft opened his eyes, noticed Sherlock staring and straightened up, smoothing his face over until only the politician everyone claimed he would become remained. He smiled genteelly at Sherlock, leaning up so he was supporting his own weight again.

“I’ll figure it out,” he murmured, nodding affirmation like the words weren’t enough this time. “I always do.”

Sherlock hoped to Merlin he was right.

* * *

The moment Mycroft walked out of the room, Sherlock sprang up, running through the short hallway to his room. He manoeuvred through the dark to throw himself at his bed, using the arm that wasn’t trapped under his body to open the drawer of the short dresser by his bed.

He pulled out a tiny camera and a slightly curved glass lens that served to focus and expand the minuscule picture the camera displayed on the opposite wall, like long-range reading glasses. Purely Muggle science and technology, actually, which made it even easier to sneak past the household staff, who scanned his room regularly for magical objects. He placed it in the waiting hole in the wall above his headboard, and turned it on. The answering projection, still too small to see much of showed a room with wood-panelled walls, books pressed together on the shelves, and a formidable set of shoulders. Sherlock quickly took his wand he’d pickpocketed back from Mycroft out and performed an  _engorgio_ spell on the tiny projection, with practised movements. The picture grew, expanding the cover the entire wall within a few seconds.

His tutor hadn’t even been able to get him to levitate a teacup.

With the larger video feed, he could see more details, taking in the stacks of files and papers scattered across the desk, the impatiently tapping fingers on the desk and the back of a black head of curls so much like his own.

The door clicked open, and Mycroft came in. The fingers stilled suddenly and Mycroft put his left hand in his pocket. Sherlock paced in front of the foot of his bed in front of the video, eyes trained on Mycroft’s face to read his lips.

Mycroft cleared his throat, and Sherlock shifted nervously on the edge of his bed.

“Father.”

The fingers drifted over to a stack of files and grabbed the top one, flipping through it aimlessly.

“I told him last time,” the voice came through clearly from the small microphone Sherlock had planted on his father’s desk, calm and unaffected.

Mycroft closed his eyes heavily, and when they opened again, they had an underlying note of steel in them. His voice betrayed none of it, though, when he spoke again. “As much as I understand that, I’m not sure he does. Perhaps you don’t have to resort to such extreme measures as-”

“God damn it, Mycroft!” The papers were thrown onto the desk. Even shouting, Sherlock had to strain to hear the voice, deeper than even his own, leagues below Mycroft’s. It rumbled, and Sherlock knew if he set his hand gently on the wall, he might feel just the slightest of vibrations through it. The voice regained its calm as the next phrase came out. “I warned him of the repercussions the last time; it’s his own fault. Have one of your assistants tell the Ministry to revoke the cloaking charm, since he won’t be privately schooled anymore.”

Mycroft sighed and straightened his shoulders almost imperceptibly. His eyes flicked to the tiny camera for a fraction of a second, and Sherlock felt an alarming rush of adrenaline go through him. There was no way Mycroft knew it was there, though. He’d’ve told. He always did.

“ _I’ll_ tutor him,” he said, as close to desperate as Sherlock had ever seen him. A warm rush of feeling coursed through him at the offer.

The hands picked up a fountain pen and began to fill out some forms from the file. “Nonsense. You’ve got your work. Sherlock will just have to cope.”

“Father.” He waited until the curly head lifted up slightly to meet his own eyes before clearing his throat slightly and continuing. “He won’t be able to.”

A sigh came from the leather chair, heavy and burdened. “Of course he will. He’s passably clever. He’ll be fine in Muggle school.”

Mycroft flinched minutely, but when he spoke again, he was the epitome of composure. “I wasn’t talking about passing his classes. Sherlock  _needs_  magic, Father. I don’t know what he’d do without it. He can’t cooperate with other people, he refuses to talk with anyone with an IQ lower than his own, and- well, what I mean to say is,” Mycroft looked almost directly at the camera, an apology in his eyes, “you’ve met him. How many  _friends_  do you think he has?”

Sherlock froze.

The curls moved from side to side, and the long, pale fingers clenched into fists. “I don’t care, at the moment, Mycroft, how well-adjusted he’ll seem.  _We’re_ always the ones who make concessions. All we asked was for him to cooperate with  _one_ private teacher. She was the last one even willing to try. And now we’re out of choices. It’s either ship him off so he can’t embarrass us anymore, or-”

Mycroft’s head lifted slightly, as close to a movement as he had to Sherlock’s own head jerk and sudden laser focus he utilised once he caught a scent.

“Or what?” he asked, eyes trained on the almost too neat piles on the desk, askew just enough to put visitors at ease.

The chair was pushed back, covering half of the camera’s screen, and long legs paced in front of the desk in the smaller view. They were pacing to the left, heading away from the camera when Sherlock saw a flash of what he’d likely label a laser if he hadn’t seen the tip of Mycroft’s wand, illuminating his entire room, and then the wall went dark, submerging his entire room into black, as he’d yet to turn on his lights.

Even in the dark, though, for a moment, Sherlock saw a flash of red. What right did Mycroft think he had to decide what Sherlock was able to hear? And after what he said? Sherlock gripped his wand tighter, wanting to brandish it at someone.

He hardly noticed when it fired off brilliant blue sparks into the quiet room.

* * *

There was a tentative knock on the door and Sherlock called for Mrs Hudson to come in. Even if he hadn’t known her since before he could remember, he’d know her knock. Tentative, but loud enough to be heard, in a certain off-beat rhythm. As distinctive as the woman herself.

“Look at you, lying about. When it’s that sunny outside? It’s not decent,” she tutted, patting Sherlock’s back as she passed him to give his bookshelves their monthly dusting. He refused to let anyone near them until it got to the point where he couldn’t read one without sneezing.

“Who cares about decent?” he muttered fiercely, turning his shoelace into a garter snake and then back again absently.

Mrs Hudson sighed, and then sneezed four times, in quick succession.

Sherlock did not say ‘bless you.’

She sighed again.

“Sherlock-”

Sherlock sprang up, not wanting to endure any of her sympathetic ramblings.

“Sorry, Mrs Hudson. Think I left one of my potions on too long. Do you smell burning?”

Mrs Hudson gasped and narrowed her eyes. “Sherlock Holmes, if you’ve-”

“I think I do. Hope it hasn’t spread to the gardens yet.”

He was halfway out the door when she called him, and for some reason he couldn’t name, he turned back to face her.

“Sherlock, dear, Mycroft left this for you about an hour ago. Nearly forgot to give it to you.” She held out a plain beige envelope, heavy and soft, the sort of expensive parchment Mycroft insisted on using. The pretentious twat.

Sherlock gave her a stiff smile, and took the piece of paper, the kind he was so familiar with. Mycroft always used it when he knew Sherlock would react, ‘poorly,’ he called it.

“Thank you.”

He turned to go, refusing to open it on principle.

He was halfway to the gardens to sulk in peace before he couldn’t take it anymore. He ripped the package open, and pulled out a single piece of paper, with the Holmes family crest adorning the top. It had a single sentence written in Mycroft’s careful lettering.

_You’re going to Hogwarts._


	2. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John plays rugby and Lestrade tries talks to Muggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am vastly uneducated in rugby. All I know is that one time I went to a friend's game and saw them run with the ball-thing toward the goal-thing. Forgive me any discrepancies and if you think it's fixable, leave me a message :)
> 
> Also sorry, not really, for the hints of Jolto. Simply trying to prove a point on sexuality.

“So,” Lestrade said, a perturbed expression on his face. “Rugby.”

“Yeah,” John grinned up at him from where he was lying on his couch. “Rugby.”

Lestrade poked the poster on the wall with a highly sceptical look. “I dunno. Seems sort of- Merlin, John, they’re not even moving.”

John rolled his eyes, and pushed himself up, going to stand next to Lestrade. “Look, if you don’t want to try-”

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. “Oh, no. I’m _going_ to play. Just-” His eyes cast around the room, at the waiting oblong ball on the small table in the doorway, and then back to the poster. “We need more players, yeah? I was just thinking that if we didn’t have enough people to play, we could always just practise quidd-”

“Nah.” John clapped Lestrade on the shoulder. “There’re actually loads of people in town that’ve been on me for a game.”

He felt his smile grow wider at Lestrade’s incredulous look.

“You mean _Muggles_?”

* * *

They stood in the middle of the field, chattering and catching up. Laughter filled the air, mixing with a sharp edge of competition and the itchy scent of freshly mown grass. People called a greeting to John, and grinned invitingly at Lestrade, who gave them a charming smile in return. John stood off to the side a bit, revelling in the fresh air and sun beating on his back as Lestrade joked and flirted with practically everyone there. John smiled at him, seeing him fall into the natural rhythm of conversation easily, because on the field, they were all the same, equals, magic or not.

As the final car drove up, the group shifted closer, becoming more tight-knit and anticipatory. Lestrade’s eyes darted around nervously, and John made deliberate eye contact with every single person there, measuring their talents as well as their person, mentally listing who would be what and planning out plays in his head. There were mostly people from town, kids John knew from before Hogwarts, from before he’d quit Muggle school and was sent to a world full of the best sort of crazy.

John stayed back for a moment to solidify his plans before coming forward, grinning.

“So.”

Eleven faces turned to look at him, all other noise suspended.

“Who wants to Captain?”

A greasy boy walked up, and John suppressed an eye roll. Fucking Anderson.

“ _I’ll_ do it,” he sneered, looking down at John, invading his space as to emphasise the difference in their heights.

John just let his smile settle on his face more firmly.

“Right, then,” he clapped his hands and motioned to the rest of the group. “Time to pick teams.”

Anderson stepped forward immediately, almost completely blocking John’s view.

“I’ll take Dimmock.”

A sturdily-built boy stepped forward and ducked his dark head in acknowledgement, not looking too pleased to have been chosen. The friends he’d been standing with offered him pitying looks as the crowd shifted and murmured.

“Lestrade,” John countered, moving up so he was to the right of Anderson.

Lestrade stepped forward with a modicum of relief on his face, and shot a grin at John before walking around to stand behind him. Some people reached out an arm to clap him on the back as he passed them.

Anderson’s sneer grew and smiled with his next words. “Wilkes.”

The boy that stepped forward was dripping with condescension, and he smirked as he made his way to stand near Anderson.

John held back his smile at that, because he’d always hated Sebastian, anyway. “Wiggins,” he called, watching as the thin boy meandered forward. Didn’t look like it, but he was the fastest fucking runner John had ever seen in his life.

“McLaggen.”

John raised his eyebrows at the large Gryffindor that strolled up to stand next to Anderson. He hadn’t known Cormac stayed here in the summer holidays. John allowed himself a moment to recover before forcing himself to refocus because no matter how stupid the bloke was most of the time, McLaggen was a formidable opponent. Not only was he a fantastic player, but he also dwarfed almost every guy there.

John scanned the small group left and his eyes lit on someone he’d apparently missed the first time through. He smiled at his good fortune.

“Donovan?” John said, letting the tail end of it pitch up as a question, because no matter whether he was captain or not, he always felt like she had a bit more control than every person on the field.

Anderson laughed aloud, quickly stifling it as though he couldn’t help himself. Sally, as well as almost everyone else, shot him a disgusted look, and Anderson shrugged as if to give a half-hearted apology. She rolled her eyes, then nodded once at John and stepped forward, smiling at him with one side of her mouth. She settled comfortably behind his right shoulder, and John felt Lestrade shift toward her.

Anderson cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together briskly. “Johnson.”

A huge blond boy ambled forward, and the five people left crowded closer.

“Murray,” John answered calmly.

Bill stepped up with his ever-present charming smile firmly in place, broad shoulders straight and proud. He stood next to Lestrade, introducing himself quietly. John suppressed a laugh. Poor Lestrade was probably helpless against Murray’s smile. John himself almost had been.

He shook his head to clear it, and turned back to the remaining few.

“Davies,” Anderson said smugly, and another boy almost as big as the last stepped up.

John gestured toward a tall, broad boy with strawberry blond hair and opened his mouth helplessly. “Er, you.”

The boy approached John with a rueful smile. “Don’t worry about it. ‘m new. Sholto, if we’re going by surnames.”

John nodded, feeling an answering smile spread across his face as well as a blush. “Sholto, right.”

Anderson scoffed and shifted in his spot, rolling his shoulders. “Then I guess I’ll take Evans.”

The last boy, Taylor, shifted uncomfortably towards John. Bill stepped forward and grabbed his arm, yanking him into the middle of John’s group with a cursory, “C’mon, then, mate.”

Taylor, smaller than the rest by at least a head, stood in the centre of the group grinning sheepishly.

John smiled at him, too, and then turned back to the other group.

“Okay, listen up!” he shouted, talking over the already-flowing stream of ideas. “How’re we going to do this?”

People shifted back and forth, but no one suggested anything.

“Okay,” John started, looking around. “Any of you got a curfew?”

No one spoke up.

“Right, well, I’m not going to stay with you tossers any longer than six, yeah?” John started, grinning at the scattered chuckles and protests. “So first team to thirty wins?”

General nods and sounds of agreement came from everyone, so John nodded in return and went back to his team.

They all turned to face him, and he grinned.

* * *

John grabbed the ball in his hands, hugging it to his body, and ducked under the grasp of a larger, slower boy, bursting through the crowd of hands and feet and legs and suddenly-

He was out.

He took one breath of fresh air before he heard shouting from behind him, and then scramble of legs. One hand grabbed at the back of his jumper, and he was sparked into action.

John pulled quickly out of range and starting running, running hard and fast. His feet pounded solidly against the grass, little puffs of dirt and grass clipping landing all over his trainers. He focussed on his breathing and kept his eyes on the goal line.

He felt someone close in on his back and pushed further, until his legs were just a blur beneath his body. He was ahead, only just, and could practically picture the scene in his head distantly, even as it became hard to even think, to even put one foot in front of the other.

Everyone would be behind him, scrambling to catch up, his teammates keeping up with the others, silently cheering him on by keeping on his back so Anderson’s team couldn’t push him to the ground. He could hear the huffs of their breath just barely over his own racing heart.

They were tied, fifteen each, and if he could just make this try, they’d win. The sun beat on John’s back as his feet beat on the ground, and he felt a strained smile grow on his face as he counted the metres until he scored.

Five.

His right foot caught on a patch of grass, causing him to step a little off, not enough to sprain though, he thought as his legs flashed beneath him.

Four.

The ball slid down in his grasp, and he tightened his grip.

Three.

A slight breeze ruffled his hair, in competition with the wind his sprinting was creating.

Two.

His lungs were going to burst, it was just a matter of time.

One.

It was just him, and the goal.

Zero.

He ran over the goal line, laughing aloud at the sky. He turned back immediately, almost running straight into Sholto. They collided anyway, a haphazardly tangled mix of limbs, with Sholto clapping him on his back and John punching his shoulder a bit and Bill coming up somewhere in the middle to practically tackle John into a hug full of sweat and dirt.

John’s entire team surrounded them, bumping into each other because they weren’t quite used to the space they all took up, laughing and cheering and shouting over one another.

Sally came up and hugged John, too, and John, caught up in the moment, lifted her up and spun her around. He set her down and looked down into her face, smiling for all he was worth. She was flushed, just a touch beyond what the game would allow, and his heart raced a touch fast as they backed away from each other quickly, turning back to their other teammates.

John was so caught up in it all, he hardly noticed when one hand grabbing his shoulder was rougher than the others.

That is, until it swung his around, causing his face to connect solidly to someone's knuckles.

His own fist sprang up and hit his attacker’s face even as his lip split and he tasted blood.

It took a second for the rest of the team to catch up to what had happened, but Lestrade had immediately stepped forward, instinctively reaching toward his pocket to a wand that he’d left at John’s house. John reached behind him to lay a restrictive hand on his chest, pushing back lightly but firmly.

“What the fuck, Anderson?” Dimmock gripped his shoulder and shoved him back, ignoring Anderson’s bleeding nose in his rough handling. A small half circle formed around John, Sally to his left, and Murray to his right.

It was probably broken, and John grinned, splitting the thin coagulation of blood that’d formed on his lip.

“Fucking poof cheated,” Anderson spat, mixing his slurs with the blood dripping in his mouth.

At that, John’s resolve to let the matter drop shattered. He stepped forward calmly, sweeping his leg under Anderson’s, making him fall flat on his back. He lifted a trainer-clad foot and rested it lightly on Anderson’s wheezing chest, trying to get the air that had been knocked out of him back into his lungs. John barely resisting the urge to move it higher to press down on his neck.

“Shut the _fuck_ up, you miserable piece of shite,” he said softly, voice completely level. He raised his voice so everyone could hear him with his next words, in case the others were feeling on edge with this, as well. “It was just a game, and you’re stupider than I thought if you let your fucking horrible playing get to this.” He looked down at Anderson and gestured to the blood on his face. “So I’m going to let you up, and you are going to walk to your car, and drive away, and the entire drive home, I want you to think about how _John Watson_ kicked your arse.”

John pressed down with his foot, and he heard the breath catch in Anderson’s chest.

“Because even if I were gay, Anderson, which I’m not, that was a fucking sexist slur, and you’re absolute rubbish for using it. People are people. Except for you. You’re a bloody idiot.”

He pushed off of Anderson, standing up straight again, and walked back to his teammates, a blush high on his cheeks. He didn’t look to see if Anderson left, because he knew he would.

John cleared his throat and nodded over at Lestrade, because good game or not, Anderson ruined the entire afternoon.

“Time to go.”

* * *

In the end, they’re joined by two other boys, McLaggen and Sholto, who live near John. It’s quiet, mostly, at first. They all look at each other out of the corner of their eyes, and Lestrade kicks a pebble up the road.

“Wish I had a fucking car,” Lestrade finally broke the silence to complain. He wiped some sweat from his forehead, and flung his hand out. John watched some drops land on his forward swinging calf, and thought about protesting, but he was covered in sweat, what’s some more, really. He desperately needed a shower, and entertained himself with thoughts of a  shower while general noises of agreement sounded out from McLaggen and Sholto.

Quiet settled over them again, and John focussed on the crunch of rocks under their feet.

“So,” Lestrade started again, obviously not comfortable with the silence. He turned to John. “Are you?”

John felt the inevitable question come up, not so much angry as slightly irritated. “Am I what?”

“Oh, come off it,” Lestrade pushed his shoulder, and John had to stumble a bit to keep upright. “Are you gay?”

“Nah,” John grinned over at Lestrade. “‘m not.”

“Shame,” Lestrade answered, and Sholto nodded in the back, catching John’s peripherals.

John laughed aloud, and McLaggen tilted his head. "Didn't say I was straight."

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "Are you joking?"

"Nope." John took the pebble from in front of Lestrade's foot, and kicked it a good couple metres ahead.

"What are you then, bi?"

John touched the tip of his nose in salute.

Lestrade shot him a grin. "So then there's hope?" he asked, slinging an arm around John's neck.

"Not for you," John grinned, ducking out of his grasp.

“Besides,” he added, kicking the rock he finally caught up to, “I’ve seen you with Molly Hooper.”

Lestrade ducked his head, a blush creeping up his neck. “Shut up.”

McLaggen shook his head violently. “What the fuck?”

“What?” John asked, bristling.

“I always thought you were gay,” McLaggen answered questioningly, aiming it at Lestrade.

John calmed down, and Lestrade laughed, and shook his head. “Nah, mate. Doesn’t really matter to me. As long as you’re attractive. So,” he hit McLaggen’s arm, “don’t worry. You and your girlfriend are safe.”

“Oi, watch it.” McLaggen pushed Lestrade back, smiling.

John got out of the way, inadvertently bumping into Sholto. He’d almost forgotten he was there. He fell in step beside him, kicking the rock ahead again.

“So, ‘Sholto, if we’re going by surnames,’” he started amiably. “Sorry about this. Not the sort of conversation from most people.”

Sholto murmured something about it being fine, and smiled down at John.

John blinked, caught off guard by straight white teeth and tan skin. He took a fraction of a second to regain his bearing before continuing on his original line of thought. “So, then?” he prodded.

“Then, what?” Sholto smiled, a mocking echo of John’s own feigned innocence.

“Come on, spit it out,” Lestrade said, having finally caught back up to the conversation after pushing McLaggen back. “Straight or not?”

“Haven’t thought about it,” Sholto answered abruptly, shrugging. “Didn’t actually ever cross my mind.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened to almost comical proportions.

“Didn’t cross your mind?” John asked, a little incredulous himself.

“Not many people, er, fancy staying around me, anyway,” Sholto added, somehow managing to shift uncomfortably even as they were all walking at a languid pace.

Lestrade looked about to say something pitying, but Sholto stopped abruptly.

They all turned to look at him.

“It’s my stop,” he explained, waving to the small brick house behind a yard of green grass.

They all nodded, because oh, yes, of course, nearly forgot we were even walking somewhere, right, yeah, see you later, should do another game sometime, then, don’t invite Anderson, see you, no, not in school, boarding school, yeah, sorry, see you over winter break, probably.

It was nearly ten minutes later that the three set off again.

The quiet was heavier this time, and John wished he hadn’t left the stupid pebble behind.

McLaggen cleared his throat, scuffing one of his shoes on the ground. “She’s not-”

He cut himself off, clearing his throat roughly. “She’s not my girlfriend anymore.”

A general uncomfortable feeling washed over John, the sort that always accompanied a confession by someone he didn’t know very well. He was debating whether to offer a sympathetic comment or go for the hug when Lestrade thankfully took the choice out of his hands.

“Ah, fuck, mate. That’s tough,” he said, reaching out an arm to grip McLaggen’s shoulder. “Sorry ‘bout bringing it up.”

“It’s fine,” McLaggen responded clearing his throat again, like there was something stuck. John thought about hitting his back to dislodge it, but just kept walking instead, staring at the empty road beside them.

It was quiet for about three seconds before McLaggen let out a rough, broken laugh.

“Said I was too busy with other things.” He threw his hands up. “What the fuck sort of bollocks is that?”

John chose not to mention quidditch.

“I mean, there’s quidditch..” And there it was.

“Quidditch, yeah,” Lestrade smiled, latching onto the new topic. “How’s that, anyway? Finally going to try out this year?”

McLaggen nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting up. “Yeah. Trying for keeper.”

“Nice,” Lestrade nodded.

“Hope you get in.” John bumped his shoulder against McLaggen’s. “Don’t think anyone else is trying out, so even _your_ sorry arse is bound to get in.”

McLaggen scoffed, rolling his eyes. “As if we’d have even won today if I hadn’t gotten that second try.”

Lestrade squinted at him. “You mean goal.”

John and McLaggen traded looks, then burst out laughing.

“Stick to quidditch,” McLaggen gasped, thumping his hand on Lestrade back.

Lestrade pushed him off. “Piss off,” he muttered, a blush colouring his cheeks.

They all slowed down at McLaggen’s stop, the dirt trail leading up to his house, larger than most on his street.

“See you, then,” John said, still chuckling a bit. “Should be getting our letters soon, yeah?”

“Today, I thought,” Lestrade said, a wrinkle between his eyebrows.

“Well, whenever,” John finished with a smile.

McLagggen just nodded, holding up a hand in farewell, and turned toward his house.

John and Lestrade kept on, heading to John’s, just at the end of the next street.

They made it to the next intersection, and John looked for any upcoming cars, right, left, righ-

There.

A pair of owls flapping steadily toward them. He grabbed Lestrade’s arm, and pointed up at them.

“Told you they were coming today.”

The owls perched lightly on the street sign, politely leaning their heads forward for John and Lestrade to take the letters from their beaks.

John reached up to take his lightly, rubbing the tawny owl’s cheek. It hooted softly in response and took off, wing bumping against its companion’s.

John turned to ask Lestrade if he thought they should go to Diagon Alley this tomorrow or wait for the weekend and was greeted with an eye-full of a brown-haired boy arguing loudly with an owl. In the middle of a Muggle street.

He let out an exasperated sigh, and pushed Lestrade back. This happened every time, ever since one of the owls had been misinformed, bringing a horribly embarrassing letter to a certain Gregory _Lewis_ , not Lestrade. Lestrade’s mum had written a total of six pages in which he was called a sickeningly sweet nickname, not one, not two, but three times.

Fortunately, it was in French. Unfortunately, that had been two years ago, when the girls from Beauxbatons had been visiting.

Lestrade had never forgiven Hogwart’s owls and they, apparently, felt the same.

John took Lestrade’s letter, and the owl flew off, as much in a huff as owls can be, to catch up to John’s owl.

Lestrade still looked distinctly ruffled as he snatch his post from John.

John valiantly held back a laugh, and they kept walking, sun on their backs and smiles on their faces.

He loved summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on the same rugby note, I do realise that there're more players than that in the typical game, but this is sort of a pick-up game, so. Also, to clear up any conversational ambiguity, Lestrade is pan and John is bi, in my own personal opinion.

**Author's Note:**

> Archive warnings, relationships, characters, and tags will be added to as the work progresses. (You'll notice that at the moment, John Watson is not listed as a character.) That will be fixed when I post the next chapter. Each chapter will switch perspectives.


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